


When the Left Hand Doesn’t Know What the Right is Doing

by LuluMinati



Category: Voltron: Legendary Defender
Genre: Anal Fingering, Does it count as Domming if you're doing it to yourself?, Light Angst, Light Dom/sub, Masturbation, Nipple Play, Nipple Torture, Other, Praise Kink, Shiro has body issues
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2019-01-05
Updated: 2019-01-05
Packaged: 2019-10-04 21:44:25
Rating: Explicit
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,598
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/17312390
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/LuluMinati/pseuds/LuluMinati
Summary: You can't really tickle yourself because your own brain will predict how and when you will touch yourself. It's part of why someone else's touch feels different from your own.But what if your touch didn't feel like it was coming from yourself?OrShiro comes up with a creative use of his prosthetic limb just in time to answer the age-old question: "Am I more tired or horny right now?"





	When the Left Hand Doesn’t Know What the Right is Doing

**Author's Note:**

> First fic on AO3!  
> First fic of the year!
> 
> ...First fic of my life, actually. ^^;
> 
> Hope you enjoy!

It began with almost nothing. The lightest brush of a finger against his thigh while on a crowded elevator.

It was a mess of several bodies clumsily shifting inside, attempting to both fit and respect everyone’s personal space. Easier said than done. They all stared at fixed points in silence, trying to avoid making eye contact with anyone. The light indicating the current floor number never seemed so interesting as it did right now. Shiro stared at it too, willing it to somehow reach Floor 1 faster.

During the shuffle, Shiro felt the tiniest, whisper-soft touch against his leg. He'd be mildly annoyed in another circumstance, but he dismissed the feeling for now. Shiro knew he was large person trying to fit into a small space with other people. (Besides, getting the light touch to the thigh was better than getting a backpack to the face like another petite passenger had. The taller one wearing the offending backpack apologized and tried to back up, setting off another wave of awkward shuffling.)

Yet as the elevator descended, the touch lingered. Shiro dragged his gaze down from the lit display of decreasing numbers to his leg. Who was still touching him? Did they not realize? In such a small, crowded space, it could have been anyone's hand against him.

But it wasn’t just anyone’s hand that had touched him. It was his own.

In the tiny moving metal box crammed full of strangers, no one noticed the surprised look on Shiro’s face.

* * *

 

It was never easy to wake up different. Functional. Powerful. But very different.

That seemed to describe all of him now. After all, this…was a different body than the one he’d been born with. In the physical sense, he was better off than before he’d left earth. There was no disease looming over his entire future. He was missing a limb but had a prosthetic one that allowed him to function as before. With the Altean prosthetic, he could reach farther (and if needed, hit harder) than before. He _was_ grateful. It could have been much worse. But…He still never quite knew what to expect in the first millisecond of gazing at his reflection.

He stopped looking at mirrors first thing in the morning. That was when the small worry that he’d wake up to find something else had changed completely was the strongest. It was too hard to reconcile that fear with the guilty knowledge that it was a damned miracle for him to be waking up at all. _He’d died._ While his consciousness floated on another plane, he thought he’d forget what it was like to even have a body. What right did he have to feel worry or resentment over this body having changed when he might not have had a body at all? _He had a body._ Most of the time he even thought of it as _his_ body. Most of the time.

It was better to wait until after he'd shaken off the previous night's clinging dreams—usually nightmares—before looking at himself.

He had sensation in his right arm, but it was different now. Muted. Foreign. The remaining nerves in his shoulder still transmitted information to his brain, though he had no idea how. But now those nerves sparked electrical impulses in a language he knew, but wasn't fluent in. Although the translation from machine to flesh was largely subconscious, it still took some effort to constantly interpret his own body. It was effort he didn’t always have the time or energy to give.

Like right now. Shiro felt drained from a long day of long meetings. Who knew helping rebuild your planet's infrastructure after it was occupied (and almost destroyed) while also trying to dismantle the tattered remains of a military superpower and maintain peace in the universe would require so many meetings? Shiro snorted at his sarcastic musings. It came out more like a sigh. He sighed a lot in private these days.

He was so tired.

He was more tired in mind than body. In fact, he'd done nothing more physically strenuous than walking toward a board room all day. Despite this, an aching fatigue pulled at him from behind his eyes and sank into stiff shoulders. The words on the datapad in front of him hadn't begun to blur yet, but his eyes itched in warning. He slumped over his desk, propping his head up with a metal fist against a cheek. He needed to review this report soon but he was _tired_. Tired like when he'd stumbled onto that crowded elevator a few weeks earlier. Tired enough that his hand began to feel…different. Muted. Foreign.

Like someone else’s hand.

This should have set off another low current of anxiety through him, reminding him that this arm was _different_ . That _he_ was different. Now he was too tired to be anything but curious.

The pretend sensation of his face against someone else’s hand was...good. Welcome, even. Slowly, he sat up and unfurled his fist, experimentally brushing his fingers across his face. The white fingertips were smooth and warm. He let the tactile feedback from his hand fade to murmuring background noise in his mind and focused instead on the feeling of his face being touched. He leaned his face into the touch. He ran an index finger up over the bridge of his nose. He knew those fingers should feel scar tissue there but let that sensation stay as white noise. He traced the finger down along his brow and cheekbone.

If he closed his eyes, it almost felt like a caress...

He directed the gentle exploration of his face lower, curving along his jawline. He brushed a smooth thumb along his lips and let it stay there for a moment. He knew he should feel his own breath along the pad of this thumb—he knew he _could_ still feel it in some fuzzy, distant way. He kept ignoring it. He moved his fingers down over his chin towards his neck—and gasped, jerking away from the sudden shiver-shock where fingers met skin just above his collar. He couldn't help but giggle.

It tickled. He'd just tickled himself.

_‘That isn’t possible, is it?’_ No. It wasn’t. That’s not how bodies normally work. But what about him was still normal anymore? Most bodies aren’t covered in scars. Most bodies don't normally wind up with a _second_ prosthetic arm that floats from the elbow down. Most bodies don’t normally take on a consciousness from the infinite quintessence void.

Most bodies don't normally get replaced after they're destroyed.

Shiro crammed that thought into the same ever-growing pile of mental background noise as the sensation from his arm. _‘Later,’_ he thought. _‘I’ll think about this later.’_

He pressed against his neck again, a bit firmer this time to avoid tickling himself. It was...nice. Not like a human hand, but not entirely unlike one either. He dipped a finger into the space between the collar of his shirt and his skin.

Curiosity began to overpower weariness. Shiro couldn’t remember the last time he wasn’t at odds with his body in some way. Too small, then too big. Too weak. Too scarred. Too changed. Too… ~~not his own~~ something. Always too something. He was still all those things right now, he was also just too _done_ with today to care.

And maybe if he was being honest with himself, he was too curious to see how his hand would feel elsewhere...

He opened his eyes and sighed yet again after glancing at the time on the datapad still in his other hand. It was too early to feel so tired. He could just rest. He _should_ just rest. He should go to sleep and wake up refreshed and ready help to keep the universe from falling apart another day. Sleep was great idea right now…

But curiosity held him now. And what if he couldn't ignore some of the sensation of his arm like this tomorrow? What if he didn't have so much time to himself?

What if he felt too different tomorrow?

He stood up and started stripping out of his uniform before he could change his mind. He could certainly admit to himself that the ability to feel as though someone else was touching him had...potential. For a few different applications. Frankly, it had been too long since he'd last gotten off. Far too long. Why not take advantage?

And if he really was too tired, he could at least pretend someone else was holding his hand before he falling asleep.

Moving a limb without feeling it was strange. It felt like someone else was half-there, helping him undress. Like a ghost hovering near him, undoing buttons and unfastening his belt. A restless, horny spirit that was still courteous enough to toss his clothes into the laundry bin. Maybe it was his own ghost and he was haunting himself now. He could accept a haunting from himself tonight.

Once undressed, he fell onto his bed. His arm hovered near him, a graceful contrast to the rest of him flopping face-down onto it. He took a breath as he turned his head from where he’d buried into his pillows. The arm still hovered in the same place. It could probably hover there all night if he wanted it to.

He didn't want it to.

He moved his arm over to his back and pressed between his shoulder blades. The firm pressure felt like it came from someone else entirely. He dimly realized that a world of self-administered massages was now open to him. He'd indulge another time. He dragged his hand further down his back, stopping before the curve of his spine met the curve of his ass. The beginnings of a blush came to his face. Was this a... proper use of the prosthetic? Would he be able to look at Allura with a straight face tomorrow?

_'Of course you can,'_ he thought. _'It's your own hand. Even...Even when it doesn't feel like it.'_

Determined now, he moved to his backside, alternating between rubbing and grabbing each cheek. Before long, he felt himself pushing his ass up into the touch. The hand meandered further, squeezing the back of his thighs and kneading the muscles in his calves. He avoided his feet for now—it would tickle too much. Instead, he took his time rubbing his way back up from ankles to asscheeks, enjoying his false-other's touch, happily ignoring raised scars across his skin. When he reached the very top of his thighs again, he let one finger trail oh-so-lightly in the cleft of his ass. Familiar stirrings of arousal turned from merely curious to demanding.

He was hard by the time he rolled over to continue his self-not-self-exploration of the other side of his body. It really had been far too long since he'd last gotten off. Despite this, his right hand drifted back up to his face, avoiding his cock along the way. _'No need to rush quite yet.’_

If he could half-pretend someone else was touching him, he could half-pretend someone else was teasing him too, right?

He parted his lips and sucked a finger into his mouth. His finger still couldn't quite feel his hot tongue swirling around it. He didn't care. He wanted something in his mouth. He added another finger and slowly pumped them in and out of his mouth. Messily, he sucked on both fingers, taking pleasure in the smooth, slick intrusion. _'If this feels good here, where else...?'_ His whole body throbbed. He gripped the wrist of his Altean hand and moaned as he pushed his hand closer, forcing the large fingers to the back of his throat. He'd missed having ~~someone~~ something to gag on.

_'Oh, I know you can take more than that,'_ He imagined a low, purring voice in his ear. _'Don't you want to be a good boy for me and take all I give you?'_

Yes he wanted to be good. He wanted to be _so_ good. To be good for...

He pushed the thought away before a name could solidify in his mind.

The fingers were yanked out of his mouth. They dragged over his skin, leaving a wet, messy trail over his chin, neck, and chest. He circled around a nipple, teasing it before finally rolling the nub between a finger and thumb. Shiro groaned. This felt much better than ~~his own hand~~ his other hand. He breathed heavier now, panting out half-formed pieces of half-formed fantasies.

“Y-y…” _‘Yes, yes that’s good.’_

_‘Is it now? You want more?’_

More panting. _‘Yes, please.’_

_‘Say it, darling. Say what you want.’_

“Nng..H-harder. Harder, please!” he whispered to his no-one, somehow blushing harder in embarrassment.

Smooth, hard fingers squeezed his captive nipple. _Hard._

He cried out at the welcome shock of pain. His back arched up from the sheets he now gripped. He wished he’d thought to bind his other hand somehow. Maybe next time. He writhed as he alternated between gentler rolling and harsh, vice-like pinches. The torturous digits almost felt more like nipple-clamps than fingers. It was perfect.

Almost perfect. Perfection would have been a hot mouth greedily sucking his already-abused nipple once those fingers gave it one last _sharp_ tug and moved on to give the other the same rough treatment. But this was as close to perfect as he was going to get alone.

He writhed against nothing but his own lustful thoughts and called out for no one but his own murky day-dreamings.

He let go of his death grip on the bed sheets to finally wrap a hand around his cock, wasting no time before stroking himself.

_‘Oh no baby, did I say you could touch yourself yet?’_ The low, sing-song voice in his mind had a razor edge to it now. The fingers still at his nipple absolutely _ground_ it in punishment. He screamed. He stopped his stroking and screams crumbled to thin whimpers. _‘Well? Did I?’_

Of course he hadn’t. He wasn’t real. But like hell if that was going to stop Shiro from pretending a bit longer.

He groaned in relief as his nipple was released. For a while he laid there panting, one hand digging into the inside of his thigh in frustration, the other hovering just above him.

_‘Ask nicely,’_ his no-one commanded, sugar-sweet and full of menace. _‘Use your manners, baby.’_

_‘Please-’_

_‘SAY it. I want to hear you.’_

He knew it made no real difference. He knew this like he knew the hand now stroking his face was his own. He knew there was no real harm in obeying, since no one else could hear him; He knew there was no real gain, since no one else could hear him.

He still surprised himself with how needy his voice was as he begged his own ghost for permission to touch himself.

He surprised himself again when his make-believe-tormentor gave a dark chuckle and refused.

_‘Mmm, you’re adorable when you’re pouty, darling. But did you want to be good for me?’_

Oh, that was right! He wanted to be good. He wanted to be goodgoodgood--

_‘Breathe, baby.’_ Shiro sucked in a shaky breath. Held it for a moment. Exhaled a bit steadier. _‘Good boy.’_

Oh god, he should not feel this good about an imaginary voice praising him for simply breathing. He did anyway.

_‘You keep breathing until told otherwise, darling’_. His hand hovered threateningly over his neck. Shiro’s cock twitched at the implication.

Instead of pressing into his throat, the hand instead moved up toward the nightstand, opening a small drawer and fetching the bottle of lube stored there. The cap was easily popped open with one hand.

_‘Spread your legs for me, baby. Look at you, aren’t you a treat right now?’_

Shiro was too desperate to care about the lube pouring over his asshole being cold. Or that he was undoubtedly going to make a mess. Or that lube would likely be a bitch to clean out from finger joints. Or the fact that he was taking orders from an imaginary person. No, what he wanted was for the finger slowly teasing him to just get _in_ him already.

Or did he?

_‘What do you always say about patience, baby?’_

The thick walls of Shiro’s room trapped the sound of his whining for his ears alone. He didn’t exactly enjoy hearing himself, but he loved the thought of someone else enjoying him, of someone else making him make these sounds.

That was enough. _He_ was enough.

It slowly began pushing into him. Too slow. Just slow enough. He slowed his breathing and tried to relax. He could almost hear a murmuring of _‘Good boy’._

He let his head fall back as he concentrated on the feeling of being worked open at a snail’s pace. The slow pace let him appreciate the pleasure of stretching around the finger. The tiny ridges of his finger joints were smooth, but offered just enough texture against his asshole to feel fucking _fantastic._ The delicious ache of his ass finally yielding to a second finger almost has him spilling pleas to himself for more, yes please more, _pleasemoreplease._ But they still moved slowly, gently sliding into him, scissoring, pulling out and then shallowly sliding in again.

Holy shit, why hadn’t he done this sooner?

He cried out when fingers pushed into him in deeper, dragging against his insides. Then they pulled back out, almost out of him completely, and stilled.

He didn’t have to wait for that sweet, purring voice to tell him what he wanted to hear this time.

“Please fuck me,” he sobbed. “Please let me come now, please!”

He’d half expected his no-one to refuse again. He wasn’t quite sure if that was better or worse.

_‘Alright, love. You’ve been a good boy today.’_

Shiro was certain that if someone had actually murmured that into his ear right at that moment, he’d have come on the spot. Instead he grabbed his aching, dripping cock again and desperately stroked himself. His other hand pumped into his hole in earnest, curling up inside him, fucking him hard and fast with just fingers. It felt so fucking good. As he inched closer to climax, his thoughts began to spill away from him—what if he did tie himself up next time? What if he used a glove or sleeve and fucked his fist? What if his ass _took_ his whole fist? What if…

What if he had someone to be good for?

“Please,” he panted. “Please...”

His rushing, overflowing fantasies almost drowned out the small, false-other’s whisper,

_‘Come for me, baby.’_

So he did. _Hard._ He worked every last drop, every spasm, and every strangled scream out of himself, milking himself with both hands from the inside and out. He kept going while he splattered his heaving chest with come. He kept going as his hips came off the mattress. He kept going as tears threatened to spill from his eyes. He didn’t stop until he couldn’t stand it.

He didn’t stop until a little false-whisper said he could.

He collapsed back to the mattress shaking. For a while, he could do nothing but lay there gasping for breath while he came down from the best orgasm he’d given himself in his life. He was floating.

 

No longer fueled by lust, he felt as drained as his cock. Fatigue and a dreamy post-orgasm haze seeped into him and stuck to him like honey. His breathing slowed. His heartbeat followed. The heat of his orgasm oozed out of him, and the chill from his sweat took its place.

He had to move now. He was just about to. Any second now.

He did move eventually. He shifted as little as possible and reached out with his prosthetic for a towel to wipe off his sweat, lube, and cum-slicked skin. Even his arm seemed to glide unsteadily now.

He sighed heavily while quickly wiping himself off. Had he really just done that? Had he really just crawled that deep into his own fantasy? The persisting ache from his nipples confirmed that yes, he had really just done that. Was he really so submissive? Was this really what he wanted?

...Would he be able to do it again?

He wiped his fingers thoroughly. He was sure that a bit of dried lube wouldn’t damage his fingers at all, but was uneasy at the thought of just leaving it.

It still felt bizarre to not exactly feel one hand wiping the other.

_‘Isn’t there a saying about one hand knowing…?’_

If there was, he couldn’t think of it now. He couldn’t think of much besides quickly cleaning up ( _shower tomorrow_ ), crawling under the covers, ( _wash the bed cover tomorrow_ ), and going to sleep. Tomorrow he would think, move, and feel like normal. Tomorrow he would wake up, remind himself he was alive and safe, get out of bed, and wait until after he’d had a cup of coffee to look at himself.

He normally powered down his arm before going to bed. The glow from his shoulder often made it difficult to fall asleep. That wasn’t going to be an issue tonight.

Half asleep, he wasn’t sure if he was even controlling the limb anymore when fingers slowly stroked his scalp, petting him through sweat-damp hair.

_‘Good boy.’_

 

His arm didn’t feel like his; It felt more like his own than it ever had.

That was enough. Maybe it would be enough for someone else too.

**Author's Note:**

> And that was baby's first fanfic!
> 
> I've always been fascinated by our responses to internal vs. external stimulus and how these things motivate us (or don't).
> 
> I'm also just, ya know, horny.
> 
> Twitter: @Lulu_Minati . Come say hi!


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